


Recharging

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Holmes' childhood, Inspired by Art, Mycroft has Feelings, Sherlock/John implied, Sibling Relationship, not series two compatible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:08:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a little post-case ritual that involves passing out on any stable, horizontal surface. John doesn't know how far back this little habit goes. Mycroft does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recharging

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this: http://against-stars.tumblr.com/post/21889994275/sleep-now-under-my-skin-so-i-found-sashkashs
> 
> I saw it on tumblr and couldn't help but write it out. (And thank you to the artist for letting me.) Now that all these little fics and fan arts are coming out about the Holmes' childhood and Mycroft being just about the best big brother in the world, my anger towards him is starting to fade.
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked. If you find a typo, please include it along with your comment so I can see to it. :)

For once, John actually regretted that the door to 221B wasn’t open. Because right now, there was no way he could get up to answer the knock, not with six foot one, a hundred and seventy pounds of Sherlock pinning him to the sofa.

“Come in!” He called.

Maybe it was Mrs. Hudson. John knew that Sherlock would hate for anyone like Lestrade—or God forbid Donovan—to see him like this. It wasn’t a terribly compromising position, not in the least. The detective was dead asleep on John’s chest, long legs hanging off the other end of the couch, his soft, even breath against John’s neck, and his hair tickling John’s nose.

It was a sort of post-case ritual Sherlock indulged in. After hours (sometimes days) running himself ragged, he would quickly pass out on whatever stable, horizontal surface was readily available. Occupied or not. John just happened to be sitting on the sofa when the crash came this time. It had happened before, and would be over in a few hours. Once Sherlock had recharged with sleep, he would pop back up like nothing had happened, make his way to the fridge and eat everything he could get his hands on.

The door opened and to John’s horror, Mycroft walked in. On the list of people Sherlock wouldn’t want to see him like this, Mycroft occupied the top space. Probably the top three, actually.

“Mycroft,” John tried to sit up, but was pinned by Sherlock’s surprising weight. He looked so skinny, yet his weight seemed to magically double when he got like this. It’s not that John couldn’t move him, it was just a lot of effort. “This is—”

Mycroft held up a hand to stop him “Oh I know,” he said. “Believe me. I am quite aware of this little ritual.” Well, there went the theory that they’d manage to find all of Mycroft’s bugs. “I was there when it began.”

“You were—?” John cut himself off this time. Of course. They grew up together. Sherlock had probably been doing this all his life, so why wouldn’t Mycroft know? “Ah, right. Do you need something?”

Pulling a file folder from his brief case, Mycroft set it on the table. “I was hoping to catch him before he crashed, but I was detained by affairs of State. Give that to him, will you?”

Mycroft was speaking to him, John knew that. He was currently the only other conscious person in the room; who else would Mycroft be speaking to? But he never actually looked at John. Instead, his eyes lingered on Sherlock’s sleeping face.

John looked from Mycroft, down to Sherlock, then back again. The crease that made its way across the tall man’s brow wasn’t a normal age line that he was beginning to sport these days. It was concern. Little crinkles at the corners of his lips and a small tremor in his hand. John wouldn’t call himself as observant as a Holmes, but he’s not blind.

“Mycroft?” He asked. “I’ve always wondered. Why does Sherlock hate you so much? Or, act like he does.” Because really, was there ever any real hate between siblings? He supposed in some cases, but John couldn’t imagine their childhood—privileged, safe, cared for—bringing about anything like that.

“He used to do this,” Mycroft said, not answering the question. The trembling hand was a bit steadier now, reaching forward like he was going to stroke Sherlock’s hair. “As soon as he learned to walk, he learned to run. And then he learned not to stop.

“He would run himself ragged all day, grabbing hold of anything that might yield some sort of new entertainment or learning. Then, he would collapse on the spot and sleep. I would pick him up and lay on the sofa with him until he woke.” Flexing his fingers, his hand moved closer to Sherlock. Closer to stroking over those lovely curls. John may not be Mycroft’s biggest fan, but he couldn’t fault him for this small display of affection. If he were in the same position—hated by a sibling he could only care about—he would probably feel the same.

“When he was sixteen, I took him to rehab for the first time,” Mycroft continued. “And I used this to do it. I found him after a three day bender, passed out on the floor of some dingy little flat in the East End, and I picked him up and took him to a facility I knew of. Top notch, very discreet. When he woke up strapped to a bed, he knew it was all my doing and refused to speak to me for a year. We actually didn’t exchange a single word until I took him for the second time.”

“Mycroft—” when he asked, he hadn’t intended to open the deep wounds that they both guarded so carefully.

“It’s good that he does this, John,” Mycroft ignored him and continued to speak. “After I took him to rehab for the third—and thankfully final—time, he wouldn’t do this in front of me anymore. Nor anyone else, for that matter. He locked himself in his room to sleep. Wouldn’t even let the maid in until he was awake. Not even Mummy.

“He didn’t trust anyone for so long, and now he trusts you.” The brittle smile that threatened to crack into a frown strengthened a little, trying to become something real. For the first time, Mycroft met John’s eyes. “It’s good that he has you, John. It’s good that he trusts you.”

He stood there for another moment, studying Sherlock’s sleeping face. John couldn’t help but wonder, how long had it been since Mycroft had seen Sherlock like this? Two years? Three? Ten? No wonder the Holmes brothers hurled insults at each other like bullets; it was the only defense they had against the betrayals of a happy childhood.

“Make sure he gets that file.” Mycroft said. John looked back up to see the man composed again. Shoulders squared, chin parallel with the floor, umbrella dangling casually. Master of the Universe once more.

“Yeah, sure.” John nodded.

With a small nod, Mycroft turned and left the flat, closing the door behind him.

When he was gone, John reached down and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. At first, he’d been happy to just be a passive place to lie, but now, he really understood what this was. Sherlock trusted him, there was never any doubt in that, yet this confirmation was lovely. Amazing, really. Something that—once upon a time—had only been reserved for family. Until family became too dangerous.

Though he agreed with Mycroft’s decision to get Sherlock into rehab, John didn’t have to agree with his method. Using something like this… this deep trust, against Sherlock broke their relationship once and for all. And now, knowing he hadn’t been comfortable enough to give that trust to anyone made John’s eyes threaten to water.

So he wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him tight, pressing his nose into that mop of black curls. Soon, John fell asleep as well.

The End


End file.
